I was told that we might have Internet here, so I brought my laptop. Sure enough we do, but the connection's kind of slow, so I won't be posting any pictures until I get back and I'm not sure yet if I'll be able to post every day. Just gonna have to play it a day at a time.
I tried to keep my expectations flexible before getting here, but that was impossible. I pictured flying in on a small, probably propeller-driven plane into a tiny, dingy, oppressively hot airport. I'd been told that there's no ramp connecting the airport to the planes, so we'd have to do like you see in the old movies and take the stairs from the plane to the tarmac and then walk to the airport. Also that there would be some kind of band there to greet us.
The plane between Miami and Port Au Prince, Haiti was actually huge. Much bigger than the one we took from Minnesota to Florida. And flying over the island in our descent, looking over the shoulder of the Haitian priest between me and the window, everything looked green and normal. Cars went about their business. It looked very quiet from the air.
We did have to walk down the stairs and across the tarmac, but they're already in the process of building a couple of ramps. The airport is certainly smaller than major US ones, but it's clean, air-conditioned, and well-organized. And though there was no band, the staff was also really helpful and we made it through immigration, baggage claim, and customs quickly and painlessly.
Once outside the airport though, the chaos hit. Before we even left the airport there were about fifty local guys all wanting to carry our bags to the truck and each wanting a tip just for touching them. I tipped a couple of them, but was starting to argue with a third when our hostess told me to just get in the truck. Apparently there are sometimes fights between the men over tips and I was probably just adding to the confusion by passing out money. Stupid American.
In the truck was my dad and I, our hostess and one of her sons. Our hostess is a woman named Roberta who single-handedly raises and educates twenty-something local kids. With the help of some US charities she feeds a couple of meals a day to about seventy more out of her carport. Once in the truck, she immediately started out of the airport and gave us the local report.
"The city is hot," she said. It was about 90 degrees, but she wasn't referring to that. Trouble had broken out in downtown Port Au Prince; people were throwing rocks. Pulling off the airport road we had to wait for a caravan of maybe ten or fifteen UN vehicles with troops to go buy. Roberta said it was because people are starving. The government's having a hard time getting control of corruption in the ports and food is either too expensive or is rotting in customs because there aren't enough people to process it. The violence wasn't near where we were, but just knowing that it was going on in another part of the city made me more alert as we drove through town.
Driving in Port Au Prince isn't all that different from driving through some small towns in the US. There's the occasional traffic light, but mostly you're left to your judgment about when to stop and when to pass. But the traffic's a lot heavier than Small Town, USA, so it makes for an interesting trip. I'm not a nervous passenger, so I trusted Roberta not to kill us or any of the pedestrians or bicyclers who we passed dangerously close to.
On the way to Roberta's house we stopped at a grocery store to pick up a couple of things and exchange some currency. Roberta took care of both. She gets a much better rate of exchange than White Guy does. I think everyone knows she's from the States, but you wouldn't know it from looking at her or the way she speaks Creole. My dad and I stayed in the truck while Roberta and her son went inside. I didn't feel like we were in any danger, but there's no hiding that we're strangers here.
After the store, we went back to Roberta's; our home for the next ten days. She has two pieces of property, both walled and gated like every other property along the dirt road she lives on. There's barbed wire and razor wire running along the top of all the walls and she hires a security guard to patrol the property, though he's stealing from her.
She knows the guard's stealing because she's seen him wearing some of the stuff he takes and his girlfriend tells her that the other items are at his house. But Roberta hasn't caught him red-handed yet, so she can't fire him until she can afford the severance deal that Haitian law requires her to give him.
The house is on one piece of property. On the other is the garden and livestock that includes a couple of cattle, maybe a dozen goats, and thousands of tilapia. Apparently the tilapia are popular right now and they're selling them every day. They're even negotiating with the grocery store to start selling them there.
The sun was already going down as we were checking out the fish, so we went inside for a dinner of peanut butter sandwiches made on this delicious local bread that's long and shaped sort of like a flattened baguette, but is really soft and fluffy.
Behind the house is a small guest house where my dad and I are sleeping. There's been no electrical power for like three weeks, but Roberta's got a generator, so we were able to get a couple of fans going and have a comfortable night's sleep.
This morning we had an excellent stew for breakfast made from grits, garlic, and some other stuff cooked in tomato soup. Right now the kids are receiving French lessons from a local tutor in the other room. I'm at the kitchen table where last night I was rocking the smallest member of the household, a six-month old named Joseph. Everything seems peaceful and routine, but Roberta told us this morning that the violence in town has spread to the airport road where they're burning tires.
She's surprised that that's carried over into a second day. Usually the police have it under control in a lot less time. She doesn't expect it to last much longer and later in the week we should be able to go into town, but it still makes my imagination go all sorts of places I'd rather it not. If we'd flown in today instead of yesterday, for example, she wouldn't have been able to come get us.
So for now, we're sticking close to home. Nobody seems worried, so I'm not either. It's just kind of surreal to have the knowledge of the violence running in the back of my head as background noise. I've got a couple of Rottweilers sleeping at my feet and that's pretty cool. Looks like it's going to be a typical day for this remarkable family.
Update: Maybe not so typical. Apparently some folks just tried to storm the palace, the police shot into them, and some of them were killed. Roberta says that's just going to get people more riled up. We may have to stick at the house for our whole trip.
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